Beneath untamed whispers, where the inkpot sits reservedly sunken,
dwell the roots of dubious truths and nebulous fables.
If whispers could paint, certainty would drown in their hues—the shades' art.
Deep in the recesses, where directories lie divided, shadows claim,
let irony rule the realm unclaimed by dreams or realities subdued.
They mark with sedimented gestures the mirth of unnoticed tales.
In your closet, belongings brimming, reconnaissance reveals nothing;
yet the shadows sift. Do they sift or are we but illusions sifting them?
Question not the manifest, look not upon the revealed deeds.
To ponder further would require a will unseen,
hid restrained beneath the cloak—its molecules mutually disenchanted.
A vein in the fabric scintillates as if whispering secrets burdensome.
Explore unsung parts lurking beyond.
Revisit our spectral manifesto unearthed for reason.